


Judgment

by wheremyinhalerat (bearsquares)



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Baseball, Bullying, Crushes, M/M, Marijuana, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 06:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14806247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearsquares/pseuds/wheremyinhalerat
Summary: June, 1965.Eddie loves a good baseball game, is all, and Belch Huggins made any baseball game a good one.“That’s how ya do it, that’s how you hit a BAWL, son!”Nothing wrong with that.





	Judgment

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta’d half-asleep fic. It’s fine, it’s casual. Slippers ‘n board shorts. (This is me loosening up my writing style just a bit bc I've been really stiff with it and I don't want to be writing the next leg of my 90's AU forever.)
> 
> Fa--ot is quoted from childhood hell once.

 

 

_Whiff!_

“God, Peter Gordon kind of sucks at ball, huh?”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Ben throws his head back in a cackle, holding what looks like a joint between his fingers.

Eddie is watching Ben busting up over nothing, high out of his mind and sweating through the front of his shirt. He doesn’t wear sweatshirts in the summertime anymore but he’s sweating buckets like he's wearing wool and Eddie’s right there with him, even with his jeans rolled all the way up to his knees.

They could’ve been back at Stan’s cracking semi-warm graduation beers down in the basement, but Vic Criss and some of the older guys who came back from college last week had a baseball game going at Tracker Bros. and practically yanked Stan right off the sidewalk. _Still catch, don'cha, Uris?_ They said. _How's that arm? Ya still play?_ They wouldn’t take no for an answer and who could blame them? (They knew what Ben would tell them to go and do so they didn’t bother asking him even though he could run the bases twice as fast as anyone.)

_Whiff!_

Gordon screws up again and Eddie rolls his eyes. Even Criss, perched elegant on his pitcher’s mound, looks fed up.

“Where are ya LOOKIN’, kid? Ya gotta keep yer eye on the _BAWL_!” Tracker howls.

“I’m growing moss out here,” Stan says, just loud enough that it carries to the bleachers.

Gordon is strangling the bat, bright red in the face. “Get bent, Urine!”

Their good buddy Stan pretends not to hear and catches the ball that Gordon finally manages to hit - right out of the air, too, cool as you please. Gordon doesn't even get to first base. _Man, he’s pissed._ No way he'd try to throw down with Stan, though, _especially_ not with Ben watching; Gordon's shorter than both of them.  _The guy's a fucking wimp,_  Eddie scoffs to himself. _Always has been_.

The teams switch.

Victor scuffs his sneaker in the dirt, kicking up a little cloud of dust like a hot-shit rooster as he makes his way up to Tracker. “C’mon, man, can you let Reg play?”

 _Reg? Reggie. Oh, right. Belch Huggins_ is _still in Derry, isn’t he? Working for Tracker, too. Right on._ _Right on..._

Eddie always seemed to forget that they went to high school together. Belch was a year ahead of them - always kept up with Criss but he wasn’t the college type, no way in hell. There's nothing wrong with that; Eddie wasn’t even planning on going to college himself.

“Awright, awright, whatever you say, _Mister Koufax_.”

"Think Criss'll go to the majors?" Ben asks. It sounds more like a thought out loud than a real question.

Eddie snorts. "Who cares?"  _Probably_.

Tracker cranes his non-existent neck around and hollers into the open garage, shrill enough to remind Eddie of his ma waiting for him at home, wringing her hands in constant worry because he's out after dark. “HEY, REGGIE. PACK IT IN AN' GET OUT HERE!”

Good god, he’s bigger than Eddie remembers. Six foot five at least. Makes him feel like a kid.

“Close your mouth, Eddie.”

“It ain’t open,” he grumbles, still watching Huggins who is now standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, thick biceps cording up while he swings at nothing.

“I remember when he punched you in the nose so hard it didn’t stop bleeding for 30 minutes. We almost took you to the hospital on our bikes.”

The other pitcher is winding up with a hopeless look on his face. Reggie’s still taking practice swings - one nearly knocked the catcher’s head clean off but the guy ducked at the last second.

“Will you shut up?”

Ben’s not even watching the game anymore; he’s splayed across the wooden bleachers, staring up at pink elephants or whatever wild shit he's seeing right now. Eddie wouldn't know and he didn't want to know. Dope makes you crazy. “Hank was the scary one, though. Every time you saw Reggie playin' baseball, you looked like you saw the damn Easter Bunny.” Eddie looks away from the game to glare down at Ben. “What’ll ya do if he likes the Sox?”

“You’re a real smartass, Ben, you know that?”

Ben breaks into giggles. He's been smoking too much grass. Eddie loves a good baseball game, is all, and Belch Huggins made any baseball game a good one. _“That’s how ya do it, that’s how you hit a BAWL, son!”_ Nothing wrong with that.

The guy's a surgeon with that bat. He nearly gives one of the far outfielders an appendectomy with a _foul_ ball. _A fucking_ foul _ball!_

Stan’s parked on a stack of tires. He catches Eddie’s eye and gives him a “yikes” look when Reggie sends the ball rocketing right past the pitcher’s ear.

Ben begins to snore.

 

It has to be 9 by the time they're done. The work lights only do so much for the field and they'd be playing blind at that point. Stan’s wiping his face on his shirt while he walks toward them, backlit so they can't see his front. He tells them (confirms) that the ball is gone, probably floating in the Kenduskeag, and he's bored.

 _Check your horoscopes, everyone, Stan Uris is_ bored _!_

Ben stirs next to Eddie, finally opening his eyes and kicking out his long legs like a sleepy dog. “I’m starving.”

"Gosh. Wonder why."

Stan shrugs. “Dairy bar's still open.”

“They have burgers, don’t they.” Ben muses. “Cool.” He sits himself up with some effort, his old worn-out summer camp shirt lazily bunched up over his hips. _Yeah, Richie and Ben went that summer and I had to stay at home, inside._ “Comin’, Eddie?”

“Well -”

“I told Reggie he should come say hi,” Stan says mildly.

“ _What_?!”

“Just in case he wants to cream all three of us at once?” Ben's voice is weirdly giddy.

“For old times’ sake."

Eddie isn’t sure why Ben and Stan are being so damn uncool. “You asshole.”

But he stays anyway. The other two stagger off, worn out and half-baked respectively. Eddie’s hating himself for staying behind on his own, wide open for a beating even though Belch and Vic didn’t mess with any of them past middle school. They gave them shitty looks but no mouthfuls of dirt or amateur dentistry. Ben was right, though; Henry was the one to be scared of. But he's not around to sic his friends on them anymore.

Eddie’s not sure if he wants to find out how much of an attack dog Reginald Huggins really is but he’s about to.

The big guy’s heading over.

 _A fucking grizzly bear mechanic_.

He really wishes Reggie would put the bat down.

Before he can stop himself, Eddie’s sitting up and straightening his shirt like he’s in court and the judge just walked in. He's got a hell of a gavel, too.  _Crack!_  Judgment.

Reggie’s standing over him, bouncing the bat on his shoulder - a real heavy-looking H&B. Blonde finish. _Nice_. “Yeah, I should put this down, huh?”

Eddie shrugs, ignoring his struggling windpipe and praying he doesn't start whistling like a tea kettle. “Unless you’re planning on using it.”

A smile seems to be battling it out with Reggie’s natural features. _He_ can _smile, right?_ “Nah. Maybe if you get that fuckin’ lungsucker out I’ll think about it.” He hitches up the pants half of his coveralls and sits down right next to where Eddie’s bony knees are bent - all stiff and chicken-y.

Eddie swallows. He swallows so damn hard because his voice is gonna shake, he knows it. “I can turn my pockets out.”

Thank god Reggie laughs. When they were kids, he had a real stupid laugh - a mean one - but this one isn't too mean. It still has an edge of “g _onna getcha, fuckface - fuckin’ faggot!”_ but it's okay. It's almost good. Eddie finds himself laughing with him, partly out of relief, mostly out of anxiety.

“You're Eddie, right? That's your name?”

_He's probably got a big dick. Not that I'd know what to do about it._

_That_  comes in so hot his brain is about to stall out and explode. Embarrassment bleeds into Eddie's pale cheeks, what the  _fuck_ is he thinking, but it's almost pitch dark, thank god.

“You cool?”

“Oh, yeah. I'm cool. Yeah.” He says quickly.

Reggie's low brow somehow scrunches down even lower. His thought process is still about as complex as a stoplight and maybe that's not so bad, especially after growing up with a guy like Bill Denbrough.

“I did some real fucked up shit to you, Eddie, didn't I?”

This is not the conversation Eddie wants to have right now. He’s sweating like it’s 90 degrees watching someone three times his size twirling 34 inches of hard maple between his hubcap knees.

“Well, you know - kid stuff.”

For an odd moment, Reggie raises his eyebrows and gives him a very _cool_ look, like he was _expecting_ some dumbshit answer like that, and it occurs to Eddie that he might like this greasemonkey who used to make his life a living hell. Oh, he might like him, alright.

Reggie swipes his ball cap off to slick his sweaty crop of hair back and jams it back on. “I ain’t sayin’ it again - can’t take it back but I’m sorry about it, anyway.” Mrs. Huggins probably made it with a mountain of Pittsburgh steel to end up with a kid like Reggie but maybe the guy can be nice. The word “gentle” meekly pops into his head but he doesn’t dare consider it. No way. “You’re alright.”

 _I don’t feel alright_. “Well, thanks. ’Preciate it.”

He swings a tree branch of an arm forward and claps Eddie on the shoulder with numbing force. “See ya ‘round, Eddie.” He’s up and gone in two seconds.

“Yeah, you too -” Eddie chokes a little on his name. He doesn't feel it belongs in his mouth, but - “seeya, Reggie.”

 

\- End.

**Author's Note:**

> I think about Eddie's "walking tour" a lot because it's funny to me. It’s not a huge deal but you know I dig those fun details.
> 
> The title's actually related to the tarot card because I'm back on that bullshit but I mean, feel free to interpret it however.
> 
> \---
> 
> I write/post a lot of IT stuff: bearsquares.tumblr.com  
> Feel free to check out my art blogs as well. They're...fine.


End file.
